Minds of Madness
Twentieth Day of the Fourth Month 294 AC
Time does not slow, for you do not dare slow it, but there is a moment there, familiar as your own breath, where you find the answer, as simple as it is elegant."You shall not pass!" The
words of High Valyrian ring out over stones that have not heard a mortal tongue since the world's beginning, just as an arcane chorus swells all around you, a thousand voices and all of them Lya's. This song lifts you up to heights almost unimagined.
Flesh like tar and inky darkness slams against your will in a tide of madness and all too knowing eyes, then one of the shoggoths below explodes in a mass of stringy flesh and fractal angles, its 'eyes' tearing free into the luminous tail of an eel-like
creature with jaws within jaws and teeth of thrice envenomed glass. Its voice had been hidden in the mad babbling, just as its flesh had been coiled in the form of its thrall.
Stillness pours forth from its maws, eating into your spell like acid.
Moving on instinct as much as carefully prepared spell, you
twist your power just so against the walls of the world made perilously thin, a counter
undone, for now at least. The ward holds as flashes of searing light expand from Qyburn, Richard, and the dark winged twins, and brightest of all from Aife, like the petals of some arcane flower. An unneeded guard for now, perhaps, but one that sees you draw in a gulp of poisoned air in sheer reflexive relief, there is another line of protection. Your spell is not all that stands between your friends and allies and all consuming death.
Only then does the enemy speak, its voice like slime slipping through the cracks in your mind,
"You have been foreseen, what is will be, what was is eternal. Flickering lights and dead stars, gods who were and those who would be more than gods. You will fall here, you have fallen, you have always been here."
For just a moment you see the bodies of your friends and your companions strewn upon the cracked basalt floor; Aife, like a discarded silver ribbon ringing
good withered corpses of Lya and Ser Richard, the myrkdreki in broken heaps beside them, and even Qyburn reduced to a few paltry cells squirming in the dark, a mockery of the immortality he sought. But even in this place, and in this strangest hour, you are guarded from such trickery and so are those who fight beside you. The vision fades, colors blurring together, shapes lost in the nightmare of another's forging.
Looking around, you are glad to see the others resist the lies as well as you, though each in their own manner, and each now prepared to pay the foe back a thousandfold for the the deed. After all there is no trap more deadly than one sprung and failed to catch its quarry.
Alas, your true foe seems to be of the same mind, by the time the figment had faded it was gone in
a twist of alien thoughts and violated space, paying no mind to Aife's attempt to bind it in the name of her god. In the babble of the shoggoths's voices it leaves behind the strangest and most unsettling thing you had heard from one of its ilk, a nursery rhyme old as the world and spread from the Sunset Sea to Volantis,
"Won't you come into my parlor, said the spider to the fly."
What do you do next?
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OOC: Welcome to the bullshit that is psionic augmentation at high level, expect to see more of it before this is done. I hope all the dispelling, counter-spelling and counter-counter spelling comes off coherently. Not yet edited. 
